


Miscommunication

by butterflybaby91



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: I don't know, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, could happen, i like bahorel/feuilly, i might make this into a verse, if people like this, lost belongings, meeting new friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflybaby91/pseuds/butterflybaby91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly can't believe his carelessness</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miscommunication

Feuilly swore under his breath as he trudged up the stairs to his grimy apartment. He could not believe that he had lost his phone. Not like it was a very nice phone—he could only afford the crappiest of flip phones—but it was still his communication lifeline. He suspected he had left it in the random café that he had grabbed a bite to eat in, earlier in the day. But when he had gone back after finally getting off work, no one there had found an abandoned phone.

In addition to the lost cellular device, he had spent the last of his discretionary money on that lunch. Usually he would not have wasted good money buy overpriced sandwiches but having woken up late and thus skipping breakfast in his rush to get to work, he had been famished by the time lunch came around.

All in all, in had not been the best day.

Bursting into his apartment, Feuilly, slammed the door angrily, and threw his coat over the table by the door before stomping down the hall to his room and throwing himself on his narrow twin bed. He laid face first in the pillow; trying to quell his frustration at his stupidity and waste of money, as well as the undying urge to grab a cigarette that he did not own, having spent the last of his money on the stupid sandwich earlier in the day.

He let out a loud groan as he mentally added up how much a new phone was going to cost—he was not going to be able to buy cigarettes for  _weeks_. Feuilly could already feel the anxiety and the tremors that he got when he went too long without nicotine starting—his last smoke had been during his midmorning break—it was going to be a long couple of weeks. At the thought of weeks of going through withdraw, he began banging his head into his pillow repeatedly—he was definitely going to die.

Just then, he heard a knock on his door, which he had left open in his rush to collapse on his bed, “What?” he muttered unhappily, not really feeling like talking to his roommate at the moment.

“Can I come in?” Jehan asked quietly as Feuilly turned to look at him. He tried to nod from where he lay sideways on the bed. Jehan must have understood because a moment later he was sitting on the bed next to Feuilly gently rubbing his back, “What happened?” he inquired gently, to which Feuilly just groaned again and buried his face deeper into his pillow.

“I lost my phone,” he mumbled and suddenly he felt cold plastic pressing into his hand.

Sitting up, he raised an eyebrow at Jehan even while he grasped the other man’s phone. “Call your phone with mine,” Jehan instructed, “see if anyone picked it up.”

Comprehension flooded Feuilly’s face and he nodded mutely before he quickly typed in his number and listened to the string of ringing with apprehension.  _Please let someone nice have it, please_ , he prayed while he listened—if he did not have to buy a new phone, his financial situation for the next weeks would be so much brighter.

But then, the phone went to voicemail and he snapped it shut hard enough to make Jehan wince at the brutal treatment of the fragile electronic. Feuilly grimaced, “Sorry,” he muttered, “There was no answer,” he added incase that had not been obvious, “Let me try texting it.” Jehan just nodded so Feuilly went ahead.

He quickly typed out a message saying:  **Hey this is the owner of this phone and if anyone finds it could you please text or call this number so that I could maybe get my phone back. Thanks!** , and pressed send.

Feuilly had just gone to hand the phone back to Jehan when it buzzed and Feuilly’s own name flashed on the screen. He quickly opened the text message to read:

**heyy the phone speaks what’s your name oh great phone owner?**

He felt a surge of anger run through him at the jokester messing with him, instead of just allowing him to get his phone back. Feuilly settled back into the corner where his bed met his wall and started typing intently:

**My name is not important right now—would we be able to meet up so I could get my phone back? Thank you for picking it up by the way.**

He figured being polite as possible would be the best way to potentially get his phone back, but as the messages continued to volley back and forth, it seemed that the person who had his phone was not affected either by his civility nor by his rudeness when his temper started to get to him as the other person stayed less than serious:

**Stranger: come on, give me a name i promise i don’t mean any harm, just curiousss**

**Feuilly: Fine, my name is Feuilly. What is yours?**

**Stranger: nahhh not giving you that…why’d you leave your phone in that café**

**Feuilly: Because I wanted to give some random bystander something to amuse themselves this afternoon. Why do you think I left my phone? It was an accident you idiot and I’d appreciate it if I could get it back. Why do you want it anyway? It’s a pretty crap phone.**

**Stranger: youre right i don’t want it…it is total crap..like how do you even type on this thing…**

**Feuilly: Who are you?**

**Stranger: you really want to know?**

**Feuilly: Yes I would like to know who has my phone so I can find you and GET IT BACK**

**Stranger: name’s Bahorel…pleasure to make your acquaintance**

The texts continued in such a fashion for the better part of an hour. Feuilly did not know what time it was, but at one point he looked up to find that Jehan had left him to his texting conversation.

During that hour he learned more about this Bahorel than he ever wished to know about a stranger—the man was somewhat of a law student, but he had been in and out of law school for years and did not seem to have any interest in graduating or actually working. He preferred to spend his time drinking and getting into fights. He was also part of some social justice group that met in the café where Feuilly had eaten lunch, which was how he had found Feuilly’s phone.

They had  _finally_  arranged to meet up before Bahorel’s meeting at the same café the next day, so that Feuilly could get his phone back. When those plans were finally made, Feuilly was relieved beyond belief that he was not going to have to shell out hundreds of dollars for a new crappy phone.

Eventually, he said goodbye to Bahorel and flipped back through their conversation. He was astonished at the amount of semi-personal information Bahorel had managed to wheedle out of him. Feuilly had told the man about his menial job working in a factory assembling cooling fans. He had told of how he was going to art school by night and how he dreamed of making money just on his art, but that seemed too far fetch. He had told Bahorel about Jehan, his only real friend, and fellow artist in training, since that man was a poet who was also still in school.

Feuilly was surprised at how well he had hit it off with this random guy who had just picked up his lost phone. He could not remember the last time he had spoken so easily or freely with anyone, much less someone he had never met. He suddenly felt inexplicitly nervous about seeing this man the next day.

“Not like there’s anything to it,” he garbled as he ventured out into the living area to find Jehan, “I’ll see him, he’ll give me my phone, and then I’ll never see him again.” Feuilly was not sure why that thought made him feel like he had lost something.

The next day, Feuilly dragged Jehan along, and the pair showed up at the café where Feuilly had eaten lunch the day before, around 6pm as Bahorel had told him to. Walking in for the second time, Feuilly noticed that it was called the Café Musain. He half heartedly cursed the place for its overpriced sandwiches and the fact that he had left his phone there—but really most of his attention was focused on the fact that he was about to meet this Bahorel.

They entered the café and looked around, “Bahorel said to head upstairs,” Feuilly told Jehan out of the corner of his mouth, just as Jehan spotted the stairs at the back of the main room and headed toward them.

Coming to the top, they stopped short at the small gathering that was already there—about eight young men sat in a cluster, attention focused on a fierce looking blond who was speaking. The blond stopped as he noticed them, his eyebrows furrowing as he inquired, “Who are you? Have you come to join our group?”

Feuilly shook his head quickly, “No, sorry, um…I’m looking for Bahorel,” as he spoke everyone turned to face a monster of a man who sat at the back of the group and looked up at Feuilly with a grin.

“Are you Feuilly?” he asked eyes sparkling in amusement. Feuilly could only nod as he felt a little scared as the man stood and he found that he towered over Feuilly’s 5’10” frame, “Here’s your phone,” Bahorel said, offering the battered plastic to the red head.

“Thanks,” Feuilly spluttered grasping his phone, happy to have it back, but really just inspecting the man who stood in front of him. Bahorel just stood there looking at Feuilly with shaggy brown hair and glittering brown eyes, grinning at him like any idiot.

“You don’t look like I thought you would,” Bahorel confessed.

Feuilly laughed finally breaking his stare, “And you think you do? I didn’t expect a fucking monster to have my phone,” he told Bahorel which made the other man chuckle as well, “Well,” Feuilly mused unhappily, “I guess we’d better get going,” he paused realizing that Jehan was no longer standing next to him and instead had planted himself next to a wiry man with curly brown hair, to whom he was talking animatedly.

Bahorel’s smile fell at that and he reached out a hand—more like a paw Feuilly thought—and laid it on Feuilly’s shoulder, “Hey, why don’t you stay for our meeting—you might find it interesting,” he offered tentatively.

Feuilly blinked and decided that that sounded like a grand idea, “Sure, why not,” he replied and went to the corner to sit with Bahorel. Most of the meeting they did not pay attention, wrapped up as they were in conversation. By the time Feuilly and Jehan left the group much later that night, Feuilly felt like he had known Bahorel all his life, as the monster man clapped him on the shoulder and texted him immediately after they had turned the corner, to confirm their lunch plans for the following day.  


End file.
